Reflections
by SlvrSoleAlchmst1
Summary: [Hinted shounen ai: Dearka x Yzak] This is a series of short vignettes, completed for the 20 Themes challenge from the LiveJournal community deayza. The point of views differ in each mini story, and it's mostly just mild fluff. Enjoy.
1. Back to Back

**1. Back-to-back**

_Those boys were always at each other's sides._

It's funny how sometimes we don't think about things until someone else points them out to us. Like how life on the battlefield is barely worth the pennies of a child's allowance. Or how space is really nothing but silence, and when you go down no one can hear you scream. Little things — details that escape us until we're made aware of them, or until the moment of crisis when we're forced to figure it out for ourselves. Like knowing that you have just ten seconds left, and finding you can't speak, and realizing how fleeting time can be during those precious last moments.

It's times like that when you notice just how god damned lucky you are to have someone like him at your back. And there's nothing in the world like returning the favor.

I couldn't tell you how many instances Yzak has sped to my rescue when I'd thought I'd had it. He's always there, no matter how much I insist that I can handle myself, or how much he complains that he's wasting his time saving me, or how much we both get hurt. There's something amazing about a bond that overrides reason and surpasses logic to compel two forces toward each other.

That's what he is to me. He's an inescapable magnet that keeps me near. And I don't want to leave. I can't explain it. I know that I'm supposed to be at his side.

It isn't just on the battlefield. Life is one hell of a rocky road, and to survive is every soldier's greatest need. Having something to protect and having someone to watch over you is more than an idealistic dream. It's what makes me want to stand up and fight.

It's what keeps he and I both going.

That's why being close to him is something so special. My eyes are open because he was the one to snap me to my senses. Now I can't help but be delighted at every move he makes, the way the lights glint off his shining silver hair. And I know there's a reason why I feel this way, and why he does, too. It's because we've always been there for each other, given each other the opportunity to appreciate the outside source of strength and support.

Maybe it's only a minute detail observed in the mad chaos of battle, but… There's nothing quite like the warm feeling of knowing that Yzak and I will always be on this plane of parallels, always back-to-back.


	2. Storm

**2. Storm**

_There was only silence as they walked through the rain._

The wind whistled harshly, sending his silken silver locks fluttering wildly into his icy eyes. He was chilled to the bone, his clothes and skin slick with the drops that pelted him from all angles.

With a poisonous sneer, Yzak wondered why they even _had_ rain in the PLANTs. They were Coordinators, a superior people. With the flick of a switch, weather inside the self-sufficient habitats should have been nothing but a toy. The power to change it was eternally at their command. Why bother to make it precipitate at all?

Suddenly he cursed as he felt a cold sensation creep up his ankle. Upon noting the loud squelch his left foot had made, he looked down at his shoe with a murderous glare. Thick, oozing mud neatly clung to his footwear, sinking into his sock as if to mock him. Yzak blinked mutely as he stared at the offending puddle, ignoring the water that dribbled across his forehead in rivulets from his now-sopping hair.

It was as if the shower had suddenly become a gale.

The silver-headed boy kept on walking. It seemed his day would not improve any time soon. In fact, he didn't think he'd ever been more humiliated in his life. With only one day off every two months, he'd thought his mother would have been happy to see him. But no, Ezalia Joule had decided to chew him out for his carelessness on the battlefield. What had he done to his face? It was hideous. How could he have been so careless? The scar could be removed, but it would cost her a fortune. Yzak knew she was only looking out for him, but still, his temper had seized him again, as was typical. He'd stormed out into the pouring rain without another word.

He'd keep the scar. It was a reminder — a souvenir from the battlefield to keep him on his feet. Earlier that day, Zala had been forced to look away after glancing at its purpled ridges. He'd have his revenge eventually. Until then, all he could do was fight back the overpowering waves of sympathy that threatened to devour him whole. But still…

No one understood. No one tried to. He didn't care. The rain had soaked him, his aura was a raging inferno of hatred, and he loathed everything from the stupid Strike pilot to his stupid mother and the stupid fake rainstorm. No one was there to comfort him, but he didn't need comfort. He'd press on — that was what it meant to be a soldier of ZAFT, and alone.

All at once, the sharp sting of raindrops faded away. Yzak raised his eyes, hiding a startled jerk as the blonde boy beside him held the umbrella over his head.

Dearka didn't look at him. The tanned youth fixed his violet eyes to the front, instead focusing on the spattering droplets that danced as they met the ground.

"Some storm, huh?" he murmured quietly.

Yzak snorted and folded his arms across his chest, but his brow softened and he felt himself at once begin to relax. "Yeah."


	3. Challenge

**3. Challenge**

_The two hadn't always gotten along._

I won't pretend that he doesn't annoy me. He does. Sometimes I think Yzak Joule is the single most irritating being to ever grace the Coordinator population, with his high air of arrogance and that violent temper that makes me wonder if he really isn't a sadist. But those things never seem to matter much when I'm around him. No matter how much he manages to irk me, I prevail somehow, like the victor of some inane competition.

It makes me wonder why we're so compatible.

Sometimes I can't handle his mood swings. One second he's cool and aloof as ice, the next, he wants a hot shower now, damn it, and if he can't take one because Zala has already claimed the last stall, I have to brace myself. But I don't mind. It can be fun to watch the swift flicker of emotions crossing his face like a slideshow. Besides, by the time he's finished ranting and I'm done pointing out that he's cute when he's angry, he's changed his mind. Who cares about a shower, anyway? He didn't want to take one in the first place.

It's times like that when I can't help but laugh in his face with the attitude he claims is so repulsive. But I can never control the sarcastic snickers, and so he merely settles for punching me until I shut up.

His constant abuse gets tiresome, but for some undeterminable reason, I love to egg him on despite the fact. I won't deny it — there is nothing in the world like getting Yzak riled up. His cheeks become hot, and his jaw clenches in a way that seems to accentuate the elegant lines of his face. His eyes are like sharp crystals of ice, perilous to the glance.

His pride is evident everywhere I look; it seeps from his body language to his speech, from the way he tosses his cascading silver hair to how he calls me an idiot like I'm nothing more than the dirt on his standard-issue ZAFT boots. He pushes me away, ignores me, throws tantrums like a teenaged girl. I'm sure the others wonder why I bother to stick around.

Maybe it's because I know I'm slowly breaking him down.

I can't help but notice the person he keeps hidden, locked away behind cruel verbal lashings and distant glares. I know there exists within him the capacity to actually give a damn, a piece of him that wants the human comfort he won't allow himself to have either on or off the battlefield. That's why I'll stay at his side, supporting him despite his shortcomings. I want to make him understand that. I'm sure I can endure whatever he hurls at me.

After all, I always did like a challenge.


	4. Touch

**4. Touch**

_Everything melted away when their hands met._

"Don't touch me," I barked at him, sidestepping irritably as our shoulders bumped. I knew he hadn't done it on purpose, but that didn't stop me from snapping at him. I couldn't help it. I hated the feeling.

I can't remember when it started. I know my mother would always grab me, hold me crushed against her chest, until the day I shoved her away and decided I didn't like her hands on me. That was the day she declared I was old enough to join ZAFT military academy. Even then, people insisted upon contact, whether it was guiding me around with a loose arm draped over my shoulder, or curious fingers that wanted to run through my hair. I didn't see what the big deal was, or why people always felt the need to lay their hands on me. My space was mine — I wished they'd stay out of it.

"Sorry," Dearka apologized absently, already used to the way I flinched at every sign of human contact. I just shrugged it off and went on making my bed. At least I knew Dearka hadn't meant anything by it.

I once asked Nicol why I seemed to be the only culprit of this aggravating scenario.

"It's because you have such a beautiful form, Yzak," he'd said with that easy indifference, that simple truth. "There's something ethereal about you that attracts people." I must say I had the urge to hit him after that.

Maybe what he told me was true, but that didn't mean I had to accept it. It wasn't long after that I became violent at every touch, whether innocent or intentional. Dearka was the only one I trusted, because we were friends. And now his violet eyes were fixed incredulously on my own.

"What?" I scoffed, wondering what the hell had him so baffled this time.

"Yzak, what are you gonna do if you ever get a girlfriend?" He shook his head hopelessly, that ever-present smirk twisting its way onto his features.

"Excuse me?" I nearly lost my balance. "What does _that_ mean?" I watched, fuming, as he laughed.

"Are you going to tell her, 'You can't lay a finger on me'?" When I told him that was _exactly_ what I'd say, he only laughed harder.

I cursed loudly. "Just shut up and clean your god damned half of the room."

"Fine," he responded. Then as he walked by me he let his hand brush my sleeve, just to see what I would do.

"You're pushing your luck, you bastard," I spat, trying to ignore the strange sensation of shivers I suddenly felt running up my spine. "Do that again and I'll kill you."

"Is that so?" He'd halted and turned around, that all-too-familiar playful grin evident on his face. "Come on Yzak, it's not that bad."

My hands balled into fists. "Maybe with _you_ it's not, but—" At once I clamped my mouth shut, horrified by what I'd revealed.

"Aha," he grinned, "So you do have a more sensitive side."

"Sensitive my ass," I muttered, and my face began to turn red. That's when I felt his fingers ghost across mine, and before I knew it my hand was entwined in his, and he with a triumphant smirk while my eyes flew wide in shock.

His hand was so soft, and our fingers fit together like pieces of an old puzzle. The feeling was warm, and my heart began to pound for a reason I couldn't quite wrap my mind around. But it was actually sort of…_nice_.

"You aren't hitting me," Dearka observed with a wry smile, as if he knew I wouldn't all along.

"I-It's because you've got my good hand, you fool," I gritted, and he let me go while I remained rooted to the spot in my stricken state.

"I was wrong, Yzak," he announced, resuming his previous task with a casual glance in my direction. "There's hope for you yet."

The only thing I could do was stare at him, while the tingle of his deliberate touch lingered at my fingertips.


	5. Scars

**5. Scars**

_The pain of their scars could no longer hurt them._

Finally, the bandage had come off. After days of pacing his room, days of fearing the monster he'd be when it at last fell away, he stood not ten paces from the bathroom mirror and he couldn't get himself to move closer to its smooth, glassy surface.

With a poisonous hiss of frustration, Yzak threw his palms over his face and sank onto the bed. Instantly he pulled his trembling hands away, feeling beneath his fingers the thick, corded ridges of the scar that ran across his once flawless, porcelain skin. He couldn't bear it.

Never once had he been self-conscious about his looks. He'd been lucky enough not to have to. Yzak Joule wasn't vain when it came to his own physical appearance, but for some reason, the realization that he would never again look the same hit him with a force that left him nauseated.

He knew he had to keep the scar, as a reminder of the blow it had been to his ego, as a vow of revenge. He had already come to grips with that, so why couldn't he face his own wretched reflection?

At once he stood, storming resolutely into the bathroom, where he quickly squinted his icy eyes shut. He almost prayed that the vision of himself he was about to witness would be hideous, a testament to how grotesque he felt at his core. It'd give him a greater reason to hate the world.

He slit both eyes open, immediately gripping the edge of the sink for support. He gave the apparition in the mirror a full second to register before letting out an inhuman howl of rage.

All of a sudden, Dearka was crouched at his side, saying something to him over the pounding of blood in his ears. His left hand was a mutilated mess of crimson, and glittering shards of broken glass littered the floor.

"Damn it," Yzak choked out, surprised to find his eyes stinging with the beginnings of tears. "How? I can't stand to look like this!" His good hand found the ground in a fit of rage.

Dearka remained silent, his mouth a thin line as he helped to raise his best friend to his feet.

"Don't be stupid," the blonde reproached him, and Yzak looked away, ashamed. The tanned boy watched him for a moment longer before sighing and lifting off his loose shirt.

"Let me show you something," he said, turning around to give his roommate a full view of his muscled back and shoulders.

Yzak hid a startled gasp, his own predicament temporarily forgotten. There upon his fellow Coordinator's back was a long, shining trail that ran from his left shoulder blade down to his right hip, where it ended in a jagged zig-zag. The mark was pale and sickly against the bronze of the rest of his skin.

Before he could think, Yzak had reached out, letting his fingers hover over the mark. "Wh-when did you…" He bit his lip in agony.

"Go ahead," Dearka nodded once, and the silver-haired boy let his fingertips follow the path of the mark in wonder. "It was a year ago," the blonde clarified for his friend's benefit. "I couldn't bring myself to tell anyone."

"So why me?" Yzak boiled, fisting both hands in anger. "You told me because now we're in the same boat, and you pity me?" If he'd felt loathing for his situation before, it was nothing compared to the hatred he felt now.

For a long time, Dearka said nothing. He pulled on his shirt and ran a hand through his coarse hair. "We all have our scars, Yzak," he stated coolly, after a time. "It's how we deal with them that makes us who we are, not what we look like afterward."

Yzak stood stunned, all words failing him, as he watched the Buster pilot stride off. His insides felt cold. But maybe, just maybe, it was okay to have scars.


	6. Galaxy

**6. Galaxy**

_Even in jest the message was clear._

Yzak Joule rolled his eyes, disgusted by the behavior of his two teammates as they guffawed loudly in their tipsy candyland. He failed to see what was so amusing. What bothered him was not the fact that the two opposite boys were singing wild, off-key karaoke in slurred altos. Rather, what irked him was the matter of which boys they were.

Dearka toppled noisily off his chair while Nicol let out something between a giggle and a hiccup. How in the hell had he gotten stuck with these two!

The silver-headed Duel pilot sighed. It was safe to say that all delusions of Nicol's innocence had been flung out the window the instant the boy had begun to suggest drinking games. For a moment the pale youth considered joining Zala in the training room, but as Dearka's loose jeans went sailing past his head, he decided against it.

Oh, this was just too rich.

Yzak smirked, giddy with the prospects of the next day's haze, when he'd be the only one with the blackmail photos to remember it by. Then he jumped as his fingers hit air where his camera had been.

"Looking for this?" came a husky whisper by his ear. It carried the stench of strong alcohol.

Yzak whirled to see Dearka waggling the camera inches from his nose. "Give that back, you jackass. Sober up will you?"

"Not a chance," the blonde responded coyly, as the precious merchandise quickly disappeared down the front of his boxers. Yzak couldn't tell whether he was refusing to return the camera or to stop drinking. Either way, his nose crinkled in distaste as he watched his friend dance around the room in a bumbling ballet, taunting him without effect.

"Fine, take it," the pale Coordinator spat, "But don't come crying to me when you have a hangover tomorrow, or when this story mysteriously spreads around the entire Vesalius."

"Uh oh, Dearka," Nicol giggled like a twelve year old girl on a shopping spree, "I think he's threatening us." The two collapsed atop the bed in a raucous fit of glee.

"Drunks," Yzak growled intolerably. At once Dearka's face was thrust into his personal bubble.

"What'd you call me?" he babbled in his best yakuza impersonation before tripping ridiculously, only to land on the pale boy's lap. Yzak shifted with a small noise of disgust, making sure to knock the blonde away in the process.

"Get off me, you pig."

"Don't get like that," Dearka sighed, curling up cozily on the floor as if to go to sleep. "You love me."

"Whatever you say," Yzak agreed wearily, eager to keep his uninhibited roommate silent.

"I knew it," the blonde muttered, and at that moment they both realized that Nicol had passed out. "Hey, it's only us now, and you've just confessed your love to me," Dearka observed with a woozy sway. "Let's have sex."

Yzak spewed out the mouthful of liquid he'd been on the verge of swallowing, wheezing as he tried valiantly not to choke. "Wh-what? You aren't thinking straight, moron!"

"Probably not," the tanned soldier admitted, sitting up only to slide over and perch beside the silver-headed boy. "But you don't really care that much, do you?" With that he made himself comfortable by laying his head in Yzak's lap.

The Duel pilot felt his cheeks get hot, but he allowed the blonde to stay where he was. Who knew, maybe the liquor was finally getting to _him_ as well.

"Hah, don't feel too special," Yzak mumbled in annoyance. "You're the only one in the galaxy I'll tolerate when he's this intoxicated, even if you do say something stupid."

"Good," Dearka murmured back softly, "Because you're the only one in the galaxy I'd ever consider screwing while drunk."

"Idiot," the other boy responded fondly. And then he felt himself begin to drift off to sleep, comforted by the fact that not even said galaxy could separate them.


	7. Distance

**7. Distance**

_They strove through the difficulty, but the gap grew._

You make me so angry sometimes, Yzak. I guess there's just no way around it. This space really hurts, the way it's been wedged between us, but I guess I'll just have to bear it anyway. At first I thought it'd kill me. Then I thought I'd wait for you until you reached your senses, but you didn't, so now we're distant.

Why can't you just listen to me, damn you? We were apart for so long. Didn't you worry when I disappeared? Didn't you wonder if I was dead? I missed you like hell, even after I realized we'd both been fighting for the wrong reasons. That's why I wanted to talk when I finally saw you again, but you had to go and shove a gun in my face.

_I'm_ not the one being deceived. _I'm_ not the one putting distance between us. I tried to _bridge_ the gap, not make it bigger. I don't want to stay mad at you, but I do want to know why. Why it had to be this way, why you chose to be so pigheaded, why you wouldn't even look me in the eye.

I'm not doubting you. Somehow, I've convinced myself that you still care, but I'd rather you proved it to me on your own. I hate this space, I hate this gap, I hate this distance. I don't want us to fight on opposite sides.

I watched you that time, after I got back into the Buster and prepared to take off. You were thinking about what I'd told you, about ZAFT and the Earth Forces. I need you to do something for me. I need you to think even harder than you were then. Figure out what it is you want to live for, which side you'll take. And do it soon, because I can't stand the way you've separated yourself.

You know I'm still here for you. I didn't die. I'm even forgiving you for shutting me out. But please, Yzak, pull yourself together, for me alone if for no one else. War is a time for allies, so we can't afford to stay this way.

I just… I don't like our distance.


	8. Walls

**8. Walls**

_It takes a valiant effort to break through._

"But why not, Yzak?" The plea bordered on a desperate whine.

"Because I don't want to tell you, that's why," the paler boy gritted his teeth in aggravation. "You sound like a little girl. Shut up, for crying out loud."

Dearka pouted hysterically, but Yzak was already immune to his many forms of persuasion.

"I'm not telling you, and that's final."

The blonde gave up and shook his tousled head. "I don't see why not. It's not like it's that big of a deal." A wicked grin snaked its way onto his features. "Or is it that you're too embarrassed?"

Try as he might to conceal his sudden flush, Yzak failed and contented himself instead with shouting his answer. "No! That's not it! Why can't you mind your own business every now and then?" His brow furrowed and he made as if to dart around his roommate and out the door, but the tanned Coordinator extended an arm to halt him.

"You _are_ embarrassed," he insisted.

"So what if I am? With your prying questions, anyone _would_ be." He growled and pushed the other boy aside. "Besides, how did we end up on this stupid topic?"

The grin was still plastered on the blonde boy's face when he replied. "You teased Nicol about the lemonade he spilled on his sheets, Zala made a crack about you wetting the bed when you were in preschool and told you to shut up, and I asked you how old you were when you finally learned to control your bladder. And then," the opposite boy struggled to choke back a snigger, "You stormed out like an exposed cross dresser."

Yzak stared at him. He hadn't expected such a concise restatement of events, never mind one so blunt and serious as the one he'd been provided with. The immediate response only made matters worse, and he blushed harder before roughly shoving the tanned youth aside.

"You're a complete ass, Dearka, do you know that?" But he hesitated. He knew the blonde wouldn't let him go anywhere unless he answered the probing question. "I was twelve," he said quietly, through tightly clenched teeth.

"I'm sorry?"

The silver-headed boy prayed for patience. "Twelve years old," he repeated, louder.

Dearka watched him with his violet eyes, remaining mute for a moment. Then, "See, that wasn't so hard now, was it?"

"Damn you."

The look on his partner's face seemed to soften. "Was it really so bad to tell me? Besides," he crinkled his nose playfully, "I didn't stop wetting the bed until I was thirteen."

Yzak's blue eyes widened to their maximum, but only for an instant. Then he snorted. "Idiot."

"But I really wish you'd tell me more about yourself every now and then, Yzak," the tanned youth went on. "And not just when I tease you. You don't have to keep everything hidden."

"Idiot!" the Duel pilot echoed for the second time, now purple with rage, "Who wants to know details like that?"

"Well, why not?" Dearka shrugged. "At least if you tell me little things once in a while, there's a chance that maybe some day you'll open up and tell me something important for once."

"I do tell you important things."

"Sure, if Zala getting on your nerves counts as important."

Yzak brushed a strand of silver hair from his eyes in consternation. "Why do you care? Why should I have to tell you anything at all?"

"You don't have to," came the response, "But sometimes it's nice to know details that relate to the person you care about." His gaze was steady.

The pale Coordinator started. "Dearka..." He trailed off as he was shushed.

"You don't have to put up walls all the time. I'm not going to hurt you, you know."

Yzak carefully averted his gaze. "I know that, you fool." His voice came out in a low whisper.

"Just making sure." The Buster pilot turned to leave.

"Wait a minute! Don't think that me telling you all that makes you special. Hey!"

Dearka threw him a mock salute from the doorway before disappearing. "Whatever you say, Yzak."

The silver-haired youth stood rooted to his spot while he watched the blonde go, seething in his defeat.

"Damn you, Elsman…" he murmured after the boy had gone, "What you don't know is that you're breaking _down_ my walls…"


	9. Flaxen

**9. Flaxen**

_They were flaxen pieces spun like gold, and the scent drew him in._

The silver-headed boy allowed his eyes to flutter open as he felt the presence of the Buster pilot in the room. Yzak was reclining on the bed, fingers laced casually behind his pillow, mulling over a multitude of things he couldn't seem to wrap his mind around. Dearka's entrance was a welcome distraction.

"You look…_calm_," the blonde observed, lifting an incredulous eyebrow in his curiosity. "Thinking of anything interesting?"

"You smell like strawberries again," Yzak announced as his roommate strode past. He ignored the probing question and instead watched through slitted lids as Dearka reacted to his latest statement.

"Yeah, it's my shampoo." The blonde eyed him warily, almost becoming defensive. "What's with you?"

"You always use that shampoo."

"So I like strawberries. What's wrong?"

Yzak caught the boy looking at him, his violet eyes beginning to betray his confusion. Without bothering to grace the tanned boy with an explanation, the Duel pilot beckoned to him.

"Come here," he commanded, hiding a blink of surprise when Dearka actually obeyed him. Without hesitation, the silver-headed ZAFT soldier pulled himself into a sitting position as the blonde took a seat beside him.

At once, Yzak's fingers were buried in his companion's coarse, curled locks. He drew the opposite Coordinator close, until Dearka's back was pressed against his chest, and then he held him there with his slender hands still entangled in the shaggy tresses.

"I actually like how your hair smells," the pale youth admitted, drowning himself in its sweet scent with ecstasy. To his astonishment, Dearka's cheeks colored. A rare occurrence.

"I think something's got you all messed up today," the tanned boy said in response. "Not that I'm complaining if you're in the mood for some action." There was a mysterious glint in his gemstone eyes.

Yzak made a little noise of disgust. "Just shut up and stay still, you pervert."

He couldn't explain it. There was something compelling about the other boy's blonde hair, some serene feeling that lay in the rhythm of letting his fingers drift and roam through the short, flaxen pieces. Curse him for a sap, but he didn't want to stop.

"It feels good," the blonde drawled, closing his eyes and relaxing to lean against the paler boy.

Yzak suppressed a delighted shudder as he played with the disheveled strands. "Then I'll keep going," he responded, his voice a low whisper in his partner's ear. And they remained that way until neither boy could remember how much time had passed.


	10. Shoot

**10. Shoot**

_He pulled the trigger to salvage their future._

Yzak Joule stood, gun drawn, his arms extended before him as he squinted at the distant target. Five other discarded target boards lay on the ground beside his, each with a bullet hole in dead center. Nicol, Dearka, and Athrun had successfully passed their first exam at the ZAFT military academy, along with Miguel and Rusty. He was all that remained.

Dearka watched his friend take careful aim, his violet eyes crinkling in the corners with anxiety. "Come on, Yzak," he muttered, "You can do it."

Nicol leaned over to pat him reassuringly on the shoulder. "He'll pass, don't worry."

"That's if he manages to keep his temper for once," Miguel smirked, narrowing his eyes.

The tanned Coordinator bit his lower lip, suddenly finding that he was sweating. He glanced at the younger boy next to him, then over at the quiet one with the green eyes. Athrun Zala, he remembered the boy's name was. Dearka hadn't yet had the time to get to know him well, nor the redhead, Rusty, but he noted in distress that all his classmates appeared calm and collected. He was the only one losing his cool.

"It's just about time," Nicol observed, "Since the commander's finally ready. Any second now." He didn't seem to notice the panicking blonde beside him.

"If he doesn't pass this," Athrun added, "He won't be coming with us when we move on."

Dearka balked. "He'll make it," he insisted, though for his benefit or for Athrun's he didn't know. He couldn't help but feel the Zala boy was testing him. He turned his gaze again to the distant form of his silver-haired companion.

The truth was, Yzak had never been good at target practice. During their training, the pale youth had always been the one to go charging in, firing off random shots in hopes that more bullets would increase the probability of a lucky hit. His intelligence and strength in all other aspects went unchallenged (although Athrun did seem to prove a tough rival as of late), but…

At once Yzak's words from the day before came flooding back. "What's the point of even _trying_ to pass?" the irritated youth had exploded, "I don't _want_ to be in the military. It was my mother's decision, not mine."

Dearka had wanted to ask just what it was the other boy _really_ wanted to do with his life, but he'd decided instead on attacking him for the hasty comment.

"You're going to give up now? After all the two of us have worked for? I'll admit, Yzak, maybe we aren't the best of friends, and I still don't know you that well, but…"

"But what?"

"We've been roommates for almost a year. I thought we were going to get through this together, by fighting alongside each other. You can't stop trying now."

It was then that the other boy looked at him, really _looked_ at him, but Dearka still hadn't been able to decipher what Yzak had thought. He _had_, however, known that he didn't want to lose sight of the future he had foreseen.

His mind was jerked cruelly back to the present as their commander called for Yzak to stand ready. Dearka moistened his dry lips while the distant figure again took aim and held his position.

This was it. Yzak would either pull the trigger and give it his all, or he'd throw everything away. The situation was unpredictable. If he didn't shoot, it would all be over. If he didn't shoot, they'd probably never see each other again. Christ, if he didn't shoot that gun…

"FIRE!"

The shot that echoed rang out immediately, and Dearka cinched his eyes shut in agony, thanking his lucky stars that his companion had at least cared enough to pull the trigger. He supposed he ought to have celebrated, but nothing was yet guaranteed. If he hadn't had perfect aim as well…

"He did it," Nicol murmured under his breath in amazement. "He hit the middle."

Dearka emptied his lungs in a whoosh of air as the commander said, "Nicely done. I'm sure the six of you will make an excellent team some day."

The blonde allowed his violet eyes to snap open, and he focused his vision on the target in awe.

Dead center.

The tanned Coordinator laughed aloud, waving to his scowling friend as he made his way back from the target. Perhaps they had a future together after all.


	11. Exhaustion

**11. Exhaustion**

_The pain and fatigue melted when they embraced._

Yzak flung open the door with an agonized shriek, his insides searing. His body convulsed with violent shudders, and the room reeled before his blurry vision as he fought his way to his bed despite the sharp bolts that coursed through his temples. He tumbled atop the rumpled sheets and gripped them until he was white-knuckled, choking back another wracking sob.

Dearka staggered into the room in much the same manner, though if it were possible, the blonde looked far worse off. He swung the door shut behind him, ignoring the lights as he sunk gasping to his hands and knees in the merciful darkness. He shivered in a cold sweat, wheezing as if the surrounding air were laden with heavy poison.

"God fucking damn it," the Buster pilot choked out, clamping his mouth immediately shut again as he felt himself about to heave.

By now the paler boy had caught his breath, but he did not release his death-hold on the bedding. He watched as Dearka trembled meekly on the floor, and he squinted his eyes shut when a sickening wave of nausea washed over him at the sight. But not even the darkness of his sealed lids could hide the images that played across his mind in a gory slideshow.

Never had they killed so many people in such a brutal fashion, or from such close quarters. Battle at ground level was far more real than witnessing a timely explosion from within a sturdy cockpit. At least behind the controls of the Duel and Buster, they hadn't had to hear the screams.

But it was war, and murder was inevitable, although neither of them had imagined it would be so terrifying. Bodies left and right, bodies with crushed skulls, torn open abdomens, bulging eyes that held frozen, haunted looks of fear even in the haze of death. And how close to it they had come themselves! Only an instinctive urge for life had preserved them, allowing them to mute their emotions and fight their way out with hearts that still pulsed. There hadn't been time to think of the after-effects during their mechanical slaughter, but now, now…

Yzak turned his head to one side weakly, catching sight of Dearka's resolute features as the blonde tried to stand. With a bitter half smile, the silver-haired youth wondered how he'd found the strength to do so. His own legs were twin mounds of lead, his arms balloons that seemed to have detached themselves and floated to a higher realm where he no longer felt their presence. The fatigue was overwhelming, but he knew what he would see the moment he allowed his eyes to drift shut.

"Yzak," the blonde murmured, sinking onto the bed beside him, "Yzak, can you hear me?"

The other boy groaned. "It won't stop, Dearka. Why the hell won't it all just go away?" To his surprise, the Duel pilot felt the sting of hot, frustrated tears on his cheeks as his breathing came in short rasps. "I didn't think it was going to be like this."

"Neither did I," the tanned Coordinator replied. He seemed to have regained his wits at last. "But we're soldiers, Yzak. Killing is what we do."

Of course. They were men of war, sheer killing machines, expendable and obedient to the last. And always prepared to die themselves.

The pale boy flinched as feeling slowly sunk back into his aching limbs, and the numerous bruises and lacerations began to take their toll on his broken body. His strength had ebbed almost entirely. Still, he forced himself to a sitting position.

"What we did was barbaric," he said feebly, battling back another bout of shudders. "I don't think I'll ever wipe it from my mind."

"But we both need rest," Dearka reminded softly.

It was true. Neither of their bodies would function if they weren't allowed to recuperate.

To Yzak, it seemed an impossible task. "I can't rest. Not like this."

The next thing he knew, he'd been pulled into the other boy's strong arms. Dearka leaned against the head of the bed, the Duel pilot clutched tightly to him. If there was one thing they shared at that precise moment, it was the need for some sign of reassurance, some form of physical contact to banish the pain.

The silver-headed youth sunk willingly into the embrace. At once the misery and horror seemed to melt away, taking his incredible weariness with it. He bit his tongue, fighting the urge to ask his teammate why he was being so kind when such images were plaguing him as well.

He glanced up, expecting to see the glint of violet eyes looking down at him from above, but the blonde was motionless. Dearka had slipped out of consciousness, collapsed with exhaustion.


	12. Silver

**12. Silver**

_They were glittering, shimmering threads of light._

You were sitting in that chair with your head tucked under, blue eyes on the page in concentration, oblivious to the world and its discrepancies. I could tell that you had no desire to be bothered. As I contemplated harassing you, I could almost hear your protests in my consciousness, rattling my brain while you told me to get lost. In fact, if I hadn't known better I'd have sworn you were already out of your chair at that point, howling your head off and ordering me to shut up.

Maybe it was that hilarious image that made me want to bother you despite the predicted consequences.

It was almost as if you knew what I was planning, because you turned around with that tight-lipped glare of yours and fixed me with a look that could have melted the polar ice caps had we been on Earth.

"If you're thinking about distracting me," you growled characteristically, "Then forget about it and save yourself the physical pain. I have too much paperwork to deal with you and your distractions."

I couldn't help the fiendish smile that curled my lips just then. "Oh really. And just what distractions do you mean?" I laughed and watched you blush and turn away.

"You know what I mean, jackass."

I only laughed harder, and you got mad. Before I knew what to expect you'd shoved your chair away and stormed across the room to meet me with a sneer.

"Watch it, Elsman, or I'll give you something to laugh about."

It was so like you. So threatening, and so like you. I'm afraid I adore you a bit too much when you get that way, Yzak.

Your silver hair flashed at me, a physical interpretation of the anger that bolted through you. I think you meant to be intimidating, but the gesture was lost as I was caught again, ensnared in that wraithlike entity that is you.

And so when I didn't reply, you went back to sit down and I followed you, and I reached out to mess with those long silver threads.

"Just what are you doing?" you barked, jerking your head away, "Get your fingers out of my hair, you wretch." But I kept playing with it, those endless strands of tinsel slipping through my fingers, and you started chewing on your lip.

"You know I like that way too much," you grumbled, trying valiantly to get back to your duty even while my fingers tossed about the too-perfect pieces. "Will you quit messing it up!"

"Beauty queen," I snickered, and you clamped your mouth shut. "Can I braid it?"

"_No._ You may _not_." You paused and raised an eyebrow. "Please don't tell me you know how to braid hair."

I returned your skeptical stare. "Only one way to find out."

"Don't even think about it." You recoiled at my wolfish grin.

"Then let me play." Afterward I watched you shiver as my fingers brushed the back of your neck.

"Arrgh! Fine, but keep quiet so I can finish this paperwork, damn you!"

All I did was chuckle. I won again.

I know your work is important to you, but sometimes I enjoy getting you ruffled. And what better way to ruffle you than to tousle your perfect head of alluring, silver hair? What can I tell you, Yzak? I'm a sneaky cad.

So maybe if you want me to stop you should cut it.


End file.
